


Finding Your Voice

by ProbablyBeatrice



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: (but what else is new), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Modern Era, Mutism, Mutual Pining, Oh wait, Panic Attacks, Pining, Psychogenic Mutism, So many misunderstandings it's Shakespearean, T/W for possible PTSD and scenes of violence (later in the book), seriously guys just talk to each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-05-01 19:05:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14527149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProbablyBeatrice/pseuds/ProbablyBeatrice
Summary: After a protest goes horribly wrong, Enjolras develops psychogenic mutism. In the waiting room of a hospital, he strikes up a conversation - though non-verbal on his part - with a drunken artist named Grantaire.





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire finds a loophole in the alcohol ban and arrives home drunk. Enjolras has a panic attack and Grantaire, despite his drunken state, manages to help.  
> ((In other words, angst with fluff and me trying desperately to show off the fact that I know French sign language.))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I nearly didn't post this because of the whole 'Black Bloc' thing that happening in Paris on 01/05/2018. I did eventually decide to, but I think it's important to clarify that I had no idea in any way that these events were going to happen as I wrote this story. I would also like to iterate that the protest Les Amis were involved in in this fanfiction is not in any way inspired or linked to the 'Black Bloc'; the fact that I wrote a story about a protest going wrong and then a protest really did go wrong is just one of life's unhappy coincidences. That said, the protest doesn't actually feature much at all. It's mentioned a few times, but that's about it. I hope that you enjoy the story!

   Enjolras wondered how on Earth something like this had happened. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had practically forced him to go to the doctors, determined to help their friend work out the cause of his sudden voice problems and hopefully get him some medication to help with it. Enjolras had, at first, insisted that there was nothing wrong with him; a stupid decision, as he couldn’t even talk to attempt to persuade them and instead had to write it down, only worrying them further.

   Now, of course, he knew what was wrong with him. The doctor who he had seen had seen him – Joly, just out of medical school – happened to be a friend of Enjolras’ typical group, which put him at ease almost immediately. He had explained, without sugar-coating it, that Enjolras was suffering from dysphonia, possibly induced by one of the most recent violent rallies that Les Amis de l’ABC had attended. If Enjolras hadn’t already been finding it impossible to force his voice to obey him, he would have been rendered speechless in that moment.

   Not mute, anything but mute.

   Somehow, after the latest protest that he had attended, his voice had… well, it had disappeared. The usually talkative, passionate leader of Les Amis gestured wildly to Combeferre and Courfeyrac in the waiting room of the hospital after his diagnosis, his voice having flown away from him. He would have attempted to communicate with them verbally, but the idea of failing at that and looking like a fool as he tried to talk prevented him from even attempting it. He knew that he would fail and was resigned to it, an odd mentality for the idealist.

   He was thankful, then, when Joly turned to talk to his friends and inform them of the situation, giving him time to relax and think more about this whole situation. He sat down on one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room, his bright blue eyes taking in the other patients at the clinic to find a suitable companion to sit beside. He entertained the idea of sitting alone, but preferred the company of people to his own whirling thoughts, especially in the state that he currently found himself in.

   A rather tall, dishevelled man caught his attention, dark curly hair striking against the pristine white of the hospital walls. Of course, it wasn’t very difficult to be taller than Enjolras, but the man’s height wasn’t what had caught Enjolras’ eye. Aside from being the only patient who didn’t even seem slightly nervous at the thought of being in a hospital, the man sat totally alone; unphased by this too, of course. There was something about this ‘don’t-care’ attitude that intrigued Enjolras, whose permanent mood was ‘care-very-much-about-everything’. He found himself unconsciously moving towards the other man, sitting down next to him. As opposed to them, he sat straight upright, position radiating fierce confidence. The other man gave him a curious look, clearly expecting Enjolras to introduce himself or explain why he had chosen to sit next to him.

   "I'm mute," he attempted to tell the man sitting next to him, but with his very limited grasp of sign language he could only sign out a very basic 'I... no... talk.' He silently cursed himself for not paying as much attention to the YouTube videos he had found on sign language when he had been working with a deaf woman during a protest; he had a vague grasp of the language, but anything beyond greetings and the alphabet had been totally forgotten afterwards. The man sitting next to him clearly didn't speak sign language in any way at all. He could tell that Enjolras couldn't speak, but couldn't understand him. Exasperated, the shorter man pointed to the other man's notebook.

   "What? You can't just look at my drawings without introducing yourself!" the dishevelled man protested, surprisingly angry and totally misunderstanding. Enjolras shook his head, miming tearing a page out and writing on it. The man sighed, reluctant to sacrifice a piece of expensive paper for a stranger to write on, but eventually tore one out very carefully. "Fine," he conceded, "but only in pencil, and only because I feel sorry for you."

   Enjolras gave an unnoticeable smile that almost immediately transformed into a scowl. 'I don't need you to feel sorry for me, whoever you are," he scribbled down angrily. The man next to him snorted with laughter.

   "Grantaire is my name," he replied, extending a weathered hand for Enjolras to shake. He did so rather hesitantly, as it was clear Grantaire was drunk. As a rule of thumb, Enjolras did not hold well with drunkenness. Alcohol dulled the senses and clouded the mind. Enjolras liked to feel in control, and therefore disliked beverages such as wine.

   'My name is Enjolras,' he wrote down on the paper, neat, cursive handwriting before handing it back to Grantaire, who looked it over. His brow furrowed as though considering something - Enjolras couldn't really blame him. The latest protest that Enjolras had been a prominent figure at had got seriously out of hand, more than earning its place on the national news and cementing Enjolras and his revolutionary friends in the minds of the general public. Tactfully, Grantaire didn't comment on it; did he even know about current events, Enjolras wondered. He wouldn't be surprised if he didn't, actually.

   "Nice name, though I had you down as more of an Apollo," Grantaire joked warmly, causing another frown from Enjolras. This one, however, was not out of anger but confusion. Apollo, the Ancient Greek sun god? He supposed that his striking blond hair would be reason enough for that association. Still, he had to know for certain the reason as to why. He tried, as a rule, not to be judgemental but Grantaire certainly didn't strike him as the type of man to lose himself in Greek mythology.

   'Why?' he scrawled onto the paper, drumming his fingers as he waiting for an answer, blue eyes locked on Grantaire expectantly. The dark haired artist waved a dismissive hand, as though that was a suitable answer. Yet again, another mannerism of Grantaire's that annoyed Enjolras, despite barely knowing the man for five minutes. He paused thoughtfully before grabbing a hipflask, filled with what Enjolras presumed was alcohol, and brought it to his lips. Enjolras was prevented from hearing whatever answer Grantaire was about to give, however, due to someone clearing their throat in front of them. The pair looked up to see Joly standing in front of them, gaze fixed upon each in turn.

   "Enjolras, I've explained the situation to Combeferre and Courfeyrac," he told him, his voice smooth and reassuring as he drummed his fingers on his cane. "You'll probably need to stay with someone - just in case something happens and you needed to call 112." Enjolras nodded, understanding Joly's worries entirely. He would stay with Marius and Courfeyrac for the time being, though their apartment was too small for it to be a permanent solution - Combeferre lived on university premises and would probably be kicked out if he replaced his roommate with Enjolras. He would have to find someone to move in with him.

   Joly then turned to Grantaire, his voice becoming slightly more harsh; it was still his usual, cheerful voice but it not had an underlying and rather dangerous edge, like a disguised knife. "Is that alcohol, Grantaire?" he questioned suddenly.

Grantaire shook his head.

   "No, Doctor," he reassured Joly with a confident smirk as he held out the hipflask. "Drink some - it's just water, though I don't have a water bottle."

   Joly declined Grantaire's offer to taste the beverage, but seemed convinced by the explanation. Enjolras stood up to leave, giving a quick wave of goodbye to Joly, who returned the parting gesture with a bright smile. The blond left the hospital premises promptly, accompanied by two of his closest friends - they obviously knew better than he where Courfeyrac's home was. He had a new apartment to get to and a roommate search to begin; he didn't want to impinge on their hospitality any more than necessary, so he would have to start writing his advertisement soon. He knew that he had a certain way with words, and simply hoped that they would not fail him in this hour of need. His apartment would probably be big enough for two, seeing as he had bought it when he had a lot of paperwork to stack in the various rooms. Having transferred most of it to digital files, however, the large space only made him feel rather lonely. A roommate would be a welcome distraction from his current... condition.

   He attempted to ignore the rather pitying looks that his friends gave him on the way back to Courfeyrac’s apartment, choosing instead to stare out of the window of the bus that they had taken at the places passing by. Paris truly was beautiful during the sunsets, the blazing light creating a perfect picture. The heavenly visage was shattered, however, when Enjolras noticed lingering reminders of the previous day’s riot, the violence caused by what had initially been a peaceful protest by Les Amis and some other demonstrators. Then…

   The bus stopped by the flat, jolting Enjolras out of his reverie. The building was well-kept and neat, and though each individual flat was small, its proximity to the heart of the city made it well worth the money spent. The group entered in silence, Combeferre making coffee and Courfeyrac turning on the TV, quickly changing the channel when noticing that the news was on again, reporting on the protest. Enjolras was thankful for this; despite usually keeping up with the news with enthusiastic zeal, today he would much rather drink coffee and watch bad reruns of Friends. He had a feeling that he wasn’t the only one. Recent events had been draining on all of his friends, he realised as he sipped his cappuccino and stared over the top of the forest green mug at the screen. Maybe it would do them all some good to watch a senseless show and ignore real world responsibilities for a little bit. Ignore the real world and ignore the sympathetic looks that Combeferre and Courfeyrac continued to sneak him.

   He knew that he would have to face his problems at some point, but this was not the time. For now, he was content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this, the first chapter! I'm sorry if it's a bit short, I wrote it on an iPhone in my Maths class. I'll be updating ever fortnight, so the next chapter will (hopefully) be posted:  
> 18/05/2018


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> True to his word, Enjolras decides to search for a roommate by posting something to Twitter. Grantaire ponders whether he should DM for more information or simply continue to live with four criminals, his best friend and her little brother.  
> OR:  
> In which Grantaire pines over Enjolras whilst Eponine disapproves of thirst following.

   "Checkup go well?" Éponine asked Grantaire as soon as he stumbled into their shared flat - inhabited not only by them, but by four criminals and a kid. Éponine loathed having to bring her younger brother up in such circumstances, but since her parents had all but thrown them out they had nowhere else to go. Grantaire, at least, wasn't a criminal. That didn't mean that he was a good role model, however.

   He collapsed onto the tattered sofa with a groan, rubbing his face with his hands before reaching out for a bottle of wine. Éponine slapped his hand away, much to his surprise. The young woman rarely interfered with Grantaire's drinking unless her younger brother, Gavroche, was around and she needed him to be a good example.

   "What?" he glared at her, confused and annoyed. Screw 'Doctor's orders', he was already finding it difficult to function without some form of alcohol. Apparently he was supposed to substitute it with something less harmful - coffee had been one suggestion - but he had no inclination to waste five minutes making the damned thing.

   "How was the checkup?" she asked again, hazel eyes filled with concern. Despite her apathetic and rude demeanor, she honestly cared about her friend and hoped that his drinking hadn't caused uncureable liver problems or something similar.

   "It was..." Grantaire paused, attempting to find the most appropriate word to describe his checkup. How was he meant to talk about it without sounding like a total weirdo? 'Oh yeah, I'm not meant to be drinking and I also met a guy who looked like a God but couldn't speak - you know the protester that's been all over the news who I always doodle when I'm bored? Yeah, they guy!' He opted for 'fine'. "It was fine, 'Ponine." A disbelieving look drew the rest of the story out of him. "I met the protester," he told her.

   He didn't even have to tell Éponine which protester he was talking about - all of Enjolras' group, Les Amis de l'ABC, had been featured heavily on the news, but only the fierce and charismatic leader had held Grantaire's undivided and total attention. Despite having not met the man, the artist had discovered his new muse and spent every moment that he was bored doodling the rebel.

   And now he had met him.

   It was, frankly, odd. The revolutionary on the news talked with passion and fire, his cerulean eyes wild and determination as he gave idealistic speeches about a brave new world, equality and freedom. The man in the hospital had been abrasive, though still very fierce, and unable to speak at all. Grantaire couldn't be disappointed, however; it must be difficult to be able to talk with conviction and charisma one day, then not be able to talk the next. The fire hadn't gone out, but it had been reduced to embers.

   "What was he like?" Éponine's voice interrupted his musings. He couldn't tell whether she was genuinely interested or whether she was simply humouring him. Nevertheless, he jumped at the chance to describe the protester.

   "Well... he was almost _too_ bright, you know? Like the sun," he explained hastily, failing at describing the man. He hoped that he had succeeded in describing him to Éponine, but that wasn't likely. He tried again, hoping that he would do better this time. "He's like... like the sun-drenched angel that we saw on the television, but somebody's clipped his wings. Still wearing the same God-awful red hoodie that he was on the news."

   Éponine, used to Grantaire's rather abstract and yet ridiculously vivid way of describing people from her long history of friendship with him, nodded absently and turned back to painting her the spaces between the lines of her tattoos; there was a reason that she had only got outlines for them. Painting the tattoos, that would then wash off, was therapeutic for her and Grantaire and a good way to get Gavroche to sit down and stay out of trouble occasionally. "Grab a paintbrush," she instructed him. He did so, beginning to paint swirling decorations on the flowers that ran up her left arm. He wondered, for a second, whether it was a coincidence that she had left the red paint out of his reach; perhaps, he reasoned, she wanted colour that would stand out more, rather than match with her red t-shirt. Instead, he dipped his paintbrush in the forest green - his signature colour - without complaint.

   The comfortable silence between them was disrupted when Grantaire’s phone vibrated in front of him, the screen lighting up to show a new notification:

“@MarbleLoverofLiberty:

Looking for a roommate in Paris area. DM details if interested.” Attached were several photos of the apartment; pleasantly coloured in shades of green and yellow. Given that the majority of the few selfies Enjolras had posted from his room had shown a fiercely red background, Grantaire presumed that he hadn’t chosen the colours for the rest of his flat; the input of friends, maybe? He shook his head, knowing that he was overthinking this.

   He paused before deciding to DM Enjolras, chancing a glance at Éponine. Her disappointed – but not surprised – look clearly said one thing: ‘You thirst-followed him, didn’t you.’ Not even a question, for she knew him better than that.

   If he was being truthful, he had thirst-followed Enjolras to begin with. This was long before the famed protest, before his profile blew up. A few months ago, a slightly younger (but no less stupid) Grantaire had stumbled across a selfie that Enjolras had posted of him and two friends – the ones who he had seen at the hospital. They were laughing, the dark and curly-haired one pulling a face as the tall man with glasses looped his arm over his shoulders. Enjolras was grinning, face all stunning angles and blinding good-looks. However, after a while of following the leader in red, Grantaire found himself looking forwards to the notifications that he got from Enjolras’ rants as well as the photos that he posted.

   He took a deep breath, composed himself, and began to type out a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that their dynamic as I have depicted it isn't entirely accurate to the book, musical or movie, but I just love the idea of Grantaire and Eponine being good friends. Consequently, this chapter featured Grantaire and Eponine having the kind of dynamic that I wish I had with my friends.  
> The next update will, once again, be in two weeks: 01/06/2018


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras discovers that it is a very bad idea to ask people to be your roommate via Twitter. Amidst the prank replies and the threats, however, he finds a perfectly agreeable person going by the name 'R', who he recognises as the artist from the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised myself that I was going to write a slow burn fanfic, but I just really want these two to get together already. A friend of mine (who we'll call Gav, because he's younger than me and very much like Gavroche) was decidedly unimpressed when I told him this.  
> "It's your story, you can do what you like."  
> "BUT THE ANGST AND THE SLOW BURN."  
> "That's all your own fault."  
> Also, yes. These chapters are pretty short, but in my defence I do have a lot of stuff to do irl - protest meetings, exam prep, jobs... yes, I prioritise them in that order.

   Enjolras wondered why he had bothered putting the advertisement on his Twitter in the first place. Of course, sending an ad to a local magazine might have been worse, when he thought about it; barely anyone who he knew outside of Les Amis read the newspapers, especially not the ads, but that would be better than receiving a thousand DMs in response to his post. He should have known this was going to happen, he decided as he stared despairingly at the 100+ messages on his account. He had been relatively popular on social media before the protest went wrong, mainly followed by his friends and other supporters of his ideals, but since appearing on the news the popularity of his online presence had skyrocketed.

   As was so typical of him, he had assumed that the people messaging him would be courteous and, preferably, share some of his ideals. Unfortunately, this was not the case. He had done some research into many of the accounts messaging him by searching through their likes and Tweets; the majority seemed very overtly against him, leading the idealist to become rather sceptical of their aims in messaging him. He placed his phone on the coffee table in front of him, ready to give up for the night – possibly forever – when his phone vibrated, giving a cheerful beep as it alerted him to the fact that he had a new message.

   “MESSAGE FROM: @subpar-R”

   He paused for a second, wondering whether he should bother to open the DM. With his luck at the moment, it would be another person who probably only wanted to room with him for an opportunity to kill him. Against his better judgement, he opened Twitter and checked the message to see what it said.

   “Hey, I saw u were looking for a roommate?” the message began. Enjolras inwardly cringed at the ‘u’; he would never understand why people used text-speak. Although a habit of the majority of Les Amis, courtesy of Courfeyrac introducing it to them all, he hated it. Wow, you saved two whole letters by typing ‘u’ instead of ‘you’. Despite this, however, he decided to read on. Desperation, he decided, did odd things to a person. “I’m free if u want – call me R. Ttyl? I’ll answer ur qs.” It took Enjolras a few seconds to realise that ‘qs’ was ‘questions’. With a sigh, he opened @subpar-R’s Twitter account and was surprised to see a familiar face staring back from one of the more recent pictures – from ten minutes ago, as it happened. The picture showed a dark-skinned girl with several swirling tattoos on her arms and shoulders, filled in with brightly coloured paints, sitting beside the man who he had met at the hospital. Throwing caution to the wind, he opened his messages again and typed out a reply.

   “I met you at the hospital, correct?” he queried, wondering whether his eyes had been messed up at the protest or whether this coincidence was some sort of sign that he was meant to end up sharing a house with this man. As a rule, he didn’t believe in destiny or fate, but this series of events somehow swayed him to feel favourable towards the man. Out of all of the people who he could live with, he would be better than most of the other people who had replied.

   “Yh, right!” came the almost immediate response. Enjolras wasn’t sure whether to be surprised and heartened by R’s apparent devotion to this application or surprised and disapproving at the clear amount of time that he must spend on Twitter to have replied so quickly. Then again, he could hardly be one to judge; he had been on this accursed app all day, scrolling through viable roommates. “Ur mute. I talk too much. Perfect match!”

   Enjolras smiled – despite himself, this R was growing on him. “Any more information that I should know about you? Age? Name? Hobbies? Criminal record?” he pressed send, now perfectly prepared for a reply in around a minute, if R’s first response was anything to go by. Sure enough, it didn’t take long for his phone to light up again, displaying the reply.

   “That escalated!!! No criminal record, 25 yrs, artist. Don’t ask what type lol, I do it all. My name’s pretty obvious if u wanna find out ;)”

   Enjolras shrugged – not a bad resume, if a little brief and with a few too many instances of ‘text-talk’. If anything went too badly wrong, he knew some basic self-defence and Courfeyrac didn’t live too far away. What help he and Marius would be if R turned out to be a gun-toting maniac, Enjolras didn’t know yet; probably none at all. Still, there was no doubt in his mind as he wrote a reply: “How soon can you move in?” He was greeted at first with an abundance of smiley face emojis, which were annoying but somehow slightly endearing and reassuring.

   “I can move in as soon as u want,” the next message informed him. “I need ur address tho lol.” Enjolras silently cursed himself, realising that if he wanted to get a roommate then he would have to send his address. He paused before sending it, the doubt that he hadn’t felt at first creeping in. Memories of the protest flooded back to him, pushing at the barriers of his memory, calling to him. Shouts, screams, blood on the pavement. Was it his own? Was it one of his friends? He couldn’t tell. In front of him was the bastard who had caused all of this, this travesty of a protest – he rushed towards him, though everything in him screamed to run away as fast as he could. His breathing quickened as he struggled to bring himself back to reality, half in a trance.

   Ten minutes later he lay on his bed, staring out of the large window at the centre of Paris. The night sky was beginning to force itself upon the world, and he could see small figures hurrying home; none of them wanted to be caught out, alone, on the city streets when night fell. The faint outlines of the stars, the monotonous pattern of the people on the street, the plants that filled the plant boxes of the odd old Monsieur Mabeuf, a churchwarden who he knew Marius was close with, lulled him into a sense of security. Finally reaching for his phone, he sent R his address and an instruction to come over tomorrow, along with a message to Combeferre saying that he would be fine on his own for the night, so not to bother coming over.

   It was only when he was making himself his nightly coffee – sleep was not ‘necessary’ for him, he claimed, especially when he had a speech to right – he realised what R’s name really was. He almost threw scalding hot espresso down his pristine white jeans when he worked it out, cursing himself for not working it out sooner. ‘R’; of course. He wasn’t lying when he said that it was obvious. He managed to write the name out on a page of his notebook, mouth mimicking it soundlessly.

   ‘Grantaire’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent a little while making a basic playlist for this fanfiction. It's something that I listen to when I need inspiration, and you can find it here: https://open.spotify.com/user/btuf5mn9b0igxozwk3zeufrf9/playlist/61ySg4IJU2riy7ZWwKx7ct  
> In addition to this, I post teaser updates on my Tumblr, which you can find here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/probablybeatricetbh  
> I also sometimes liveblog my writing process (it's a lot of "WRITING IS DIFFICULT" and "WHY CAN'T THESE IDIOTS JUST KISS ALREADY") and reblog a lot of fandom stuff, so if you're interested in getting more updates and more insight into this story then checking out my Tumblr's probably a good idea.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that I didn't post when I was meant to! To make up for this, I'm going to be posting as many chapters as I can before next Friday, including this one (that should have been posted about a week ago). A lot of stuff has been going on in real life, but more on that later! For now, please enjoy the next chapter.  
> aNd ThEy WeRe RoOmAtEs.

   The first thing that struck Grantaire was how pleasant the Arrondissement that Enjolras lived in was. As opposed to where he, Éponine, Gavroche and Patron-Minette resided, this was a very clearly well-maintained and polite neighbourhood. No one had thrown a glass bottle at him, for example, or yelled obscene slurs when he ordered the ‘wrong’ type of drink in the local coffee shop, which was definitely an improvement on where he lived.

   He sat in the very coffee shop that he had ordered the bright green smoothie from, wondering how early he could show up to what might be his new apartment without looking like an over-eager loner. Damnit, if Éponine was here then she would be supporting him and giving advice… or chastising him for his obsession with making a good first impression. Probably the latter, actually. He could almost picture her there. “If he doesn’t like you, it’s his loss. Patron-Minette aren’t so bad, you can just come back home.”

   He checked the time on the wall: 10:24 a.m. It was probably time to leave, he decided as he downed the last of his smoothie and looked towards the door just as it swung open.

   In walked a god, flanked by two friends who almost looked as though they were guarding him.

   It took Grantaire a few seconds to register that Enjolras had walked in through the door, a few seconds more to decide what he should do. Everything in his mind was screaming at him to leave, to wait for a few hours and then go to the apartment, to avoid this encounter. One small part of him, however, whispered encouragement. Steeling his nerves, he approached the group as they sat down, having ordered their drinks. Enjolras silently looked up, clearly recognising him as he moved to make space at the table. The other two – Grantaire had seen them at the hospital and on one of Enjolras’ rare selfies – exchanged a glance before returning to their conversation in hushed tones. Grantaire gazed at them curiously before turning back to Enjolras with an easy grin. The blond was already writing something on a small, red notepad, which he then handed to Grantaire.

   ‘I thought you weren’t going to show up, so I came down here,’ it read in scrawling handwriting. Grantaire shrugged; he hadn’t expected that Enjolras would be waiting for him, rather than vice versa.

   “I just got here,” he lied, chancing another look towards Enjolras’ friends. Though they attempted to disguise it, they were certainly surveying him with some interest and – from the one with glasses – scepticism. “I was going to grab a drink and head over to see if you fancied being a roommate with a good old failing artist.”

   “We can get you a drink if you want!” the curly haired friend butted into the conversation, grinning as he held out a hand for him to shake. “I’m Courfeyrac, Enjolras’ best friend ever, and this is Combeferre. Grantaire, right? He’s mentioned you.” At this, he gave Enjolras a sly look, earning him a vehement glare and a slap to the arm with a notebook. Grantaire shook his head, feeling very much as though it was a bad idea to intrude on this conversation. As per usual, he felt like the outsider there, like he was making everyone uncomfortable by simply existing.

   “I should… go,” he replied lamely, standing up to leave the café before he could do or say anything to embarrass himself even more than he probably already had.

   “No, stay,” the man with glasses – Combeferre, he should call him, as he now had no excuse to simply call people by their physical features in his head – ordered him. “We need to ensure that you’re… a suitable roommate for Enjolras.”

   The man in question rolled his eyes, scribbling something else into the notebook. ‘I’m sure that he’s fine,’ it read. ‘He seems perfectly nice, if a little messy.’ It was clear, then, that Enjolras was not one to sugar-coat anything at all. Even from what Grantaire could tell by his speeches, he was direct and to the point most of the time. Grantaire was about to turn away when the notebook was pushed into his hands once more. ‘All the same, stay.’ There was a smiley face drawn in a different pen colour, causing Grantaire to look around the table for answers. Enjolras pointedly looked over to Courfeyrac.

   The conversation was jovial and cheery, with Courfeyrac mainly introducing light-hearted topics of conversation so as to get to know Grantaire ‘super well’, as he put it. It was when the trio began to talk in hushed tones, Enjolras scribbling down words hastily on his notepad, that Grantaire felt he had overstayed his welcome. He was about to get up to leave when he heard Combeferre mention a name that he recognised: “Patron-Minette.” He almost did a double take – how on earth did people like this know the criminals that he had been living with up until now? They weren’t well known or murders; at least, he didn’t think that they were. Perhaps it wasn’t the best time to mention that he lived with them, he decided as the trio stood up. He chanced a smile, wondering what their verdict would be. Enjolras pushed the notepad into his hands, expression serious and determined. He mimed opening it, prompting Grantaire to do it himself.

   ‘You can live with me on some conditions,” it began. ‘First of all, I hope that you will agree to paying your share of the bills and rent. Not much, you understand, but enough. Secondly, you ought to come to the meetings of my group – being from another side of town, I believe that your input will be invaluable and provide a new insight. Finally, I expect there to be no alcohol in our shared apartment. It dulls the mind, and I cannot abide such a thing. I hold the same opinion on drugs and cigarettes.’

   Grantaire looked up at Enjolras, clearly waiting expectantly with that typical haughty air of his. Self-importance, a do-good attitude, effortless beauty… and no tolerance for alcohol or cigarettes? Next thing he knew, the blond would be demanding that Grantaire give up his coffee and art!

   Art. Of course. The one thing more therapeutic than alcohol. Before he had become old enough to drink his problems away, he had painted them away, a thousand colours covering the canvas – angry colours, sad colours, hopeless colours. Rarely happy colours. With the alcohol came the dark colours, creeping in at the edge of the canvas, waiting until they managed to call him back to their savage embrace. He wondered what the colours would be like if he moved in with Enjolras.

   Enjolras and his friends – allies? – were still waiting. Grantaire looked up with a cheeky grin, holding out a weathered hand for his new roommate to shake. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Apollo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so... these are the main reasons that I didn't post:  
> 1) I was in hospital a bit.  
> 2) I performed with the BBC Symphony Orchestra (singing and a little bit of acting!) which obviously greatly improves my chances of getting into the college that I want, seeing as they're closely affiliated with that orchestra.  
> 3) Exam stress. Not much, as I'm not in year eleven yet, but music exams and play auditions are closing in.  
> Thank you so much for your patience! Obviously, not many chapters are going to be over 2,000 words long. When I get around to editing, I might combine some of them together. For now, though, they're going to be kept brief because I don't have a lot of time on my hands.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: PANIC ATTACKS  
> This chapter contains a panic attack heavily based on those I suffer from myself. If you are sensitive to material regarding anxiety, panic attacks and breakdowns, please skip from "...he simply couldn’t say a word." to "Enjolras shook his head slightly" These will both be underlined so that you don't miss them.

   ‘Why?’

   That was the single word running through Enjolras’ mind as he stared despairingly at the living room that he and Grantaire now shared. Paintbrushes and charcoal pencils littered the floor, despite Enjolras urging his roommate to pick them up (‘They’re expensive, Grantaire, put them away!’) and he was sure that he could see some acrylic paint on one of the cushions that Jehan had taken to giving him for his birthday each year. There were even paintbrushes in Enjolras’ favourite coffee mug. Grantaire himself was nowhere to be seen.

   Enjolras sighed, beginning to pick up some of the rubbish that Grantaire had carelessly tossed aside when he got bored, the majority of them being drawings. They varied completely in content from what Enjolras could see, from structured studies of what he presumed were Grantaire’s friends to abstract dashes of oil paint on tiny canvases. He couldn’t understand why the artist thought that these were bad enough to get rid of – they were better than he could ever manage. His hands were built to write, not to create wonderful art. He envied Grantaire in that.

   The door swung open and Grantaire stumbled through, obviously drunk out of his mind. Enjolras almost regretted banning alcohol; at least if he hadn’t, he would know that Grantaire was safe. As it stood, however, Grantaire went out to get hammered before coming home and collapsing. The news, of course, was enjoying this immensely, along with Enjolras’ many Twitter and political opponents. He could almost see Montparnasse’s message to him, news article linked (didn’t the press have anything better to do than hound mute revolutionaries?):

   “I didn’t know that the benevolent Enjolras had extended his kindness to drunken nobodies.”

   “I thought I had told you not to message me,” was the only reply that Enjolras had given before blocking him – he always made a point to not block people, but Montparnasse… he was the only exception. Frankly, he thought that he was charitable in not pointing out that Montparnasse may not be drunk, but he was certainly a nobody as far as the general population was concerned.

   The blond turned around quickly, disturbed from his reverie, as he heard Grantaire stumble through the doorway. ‘Drunk,’ Enjolras realised – ensuring that there was no alcohol in the flat had only prompted Grantaire to go out and get drunk somewhere else. He couldn’t just scrap the rule, though, otherwise he’d seem too lenient. He stood in the hallway of the flat, trying to work out a compromise, when Grantaire collapsed face down on the setee. Enjolras shook his shoulder, not entirely sure how to deal with someone drunk to the extent of his new roommate – he was always the worst person to go to when his friends were drunk, mainly because he had absolutely no knowledge on it.

   Grantaire turned, bleary-eyed, to Enjolras with a slight glare. “What?” he asked. Enjolras looked around desperately for a piece of paper to write his reply down on, then found a scrappy piece of paper pushed into his hand. There had clearly been a doodle at the bottom, though Grantaire seemed to have hastily scribbled it out.

   ‘You’re drunk,’ Enjolras stated, handing the paper back to Grantaire. He only shrugged, turning away.

   “I’m not yet drunk enough to not know that I am, indeed, drunk. Therefore, how can I truly be drunk?” he countered. Enjolras, surprised at Grantaire’s unexpected moment of eloquence, turned immediately to his roommate and seized the paper from his hand.

   ‘Pretty words, but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re intoxicated on my setee.’

   “Our setee,” Grantaire corrected him, pointing an accusing finger at Enjolras as he finally got off the said sofa to get himself a glass of water – it was second nature to him to that, by now, to prevent a hangover the next day. Enjolras winced slightly as the chosen glass clinked against the ceramic sink, sure that it would leave a chip. Grantaire ignored him and continued filling it up with water, downing it quickly before leaving it under the tap again and opening a cupboard. “Do you have any aspirin?”

   ‘Medicine cabinet in the bathroom,’ Enjolras informed him, annoyed once again that he had to painstakingly write out whatever he wanted to say. He was well aware that his handwriting wasn’t the neatest, and though he was a fast writer it always took twice as long to write something as to say it. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he should teach Grantaire some sign language. He heard a stiff cardboard box being opened, wanting to call out to remind his roommate that one pill would be enough but unable to; no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much his speech therapist encouraged him and gave him ‘anti-anxiety’ medications with the promise that it would all get better, he simply couldn’t say a word.

   Standing alone in the living room of his apartment, he broke down. The world was closing in around him, forcing him into a tighter space as he tried hard to breath, to speak, to call out and get help from someone, anyone, at all who could save him from this thing that was threatening him and hurting him and oh God, he couldn’t breath and people were all around him yelling and _fuck-_

   “I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder, Enjolras, is that okay?” a voice came from beside him, calm and reassuring. “I want you to be aware of what I’m about to do.”

   Grantaire knelt beside Enjolras, who nodded in answer to his question. His hand came to rest on Enjolras' heaving shoulders before he spoke again. “I’m going to give you a Mento so that they chewing and the strong flavour grounds you slightly. Then I’m going to have you to relax your muscles one by one and do a breathing exercise. Is that okay?” Another nod.  A soft mint was placed into Enjolras’ shaking hand and bought up to his mouth. After a few seconds, he began to chew it. Grantaire sat back, though didn’t move too far away from Enjolras. “Breathing exercises, okay? We’re going to start small; in for four, out for four. I’ll count.”

   Enjolras shook his head slightly, though his breathing had already slightly started to slow down. The presence of Grantaire, the grounding effect that a couple of simple things had had, was beginning to reassure him. It took him a few seconds to realise that his face was streaked with salty tears that plastered his blond curls to his face, prompting him to turn to Grantaire and point towards the tissue box that sat on the coffee table – despite being no more than a few paces away from it, behind the dark red setee, he felt as though his legs would give way if he even attempted to stand up. Silently, Grantaire strolled over and bought the tissue box back to Enjolras, who used about three to wipe the tears from his face. Grantaire put his arm around Enjolras’ shoulders, simply letting his roommate lean on him, burying his face into Grantaire’s faded green hoodie and hiding away from the world.

   Let the world piss off, Grantaire thought as he looked down at Enjolras, unsure of whether he was asleep or simply still. Let the world piss off and take its problems for another day.

   Even if Grantaire had known sign language, he would have been unlikely to notice what the apparently sleeping Enjolras was doing. ‘T-h-a-n-k y-o-u,’ he spelt out against Grantaire’s hoodie, pausing for a second before crossing his index and middle finger whilst clenching the others inwards, rather like the British sign for good luck. ‘R’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, SO sorry that I haven't updated in ages! I've had a lot going on personally (yeah, that old excuse) but now that it's Summer I'm going to be pre-writing about another three chapters to get me prepared for the next school year. If you've stuck with me despite the two month long hiatus, I love and thank you with all of my heart!  
> Leaving kudos and comments is like tea for me - I'm thirsty for it and it gets me doing what you want, pretty much. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the latest chapter!
> 
> A SMALL NOTE: whilst the things that Grantaire advised Enjolras to do are things that I personally do to calm and ground myself in a panic attack, they may not work for everyone. Please don't take my word as law, as everyone is completely different when it comes to mental health.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I have NO excuse for being so late with the next chapter, at all. I can only ask for forgiveness and apologise - I'll really try hard to be more regular with my updates.

   Grantaire was the first to wake, glancing down at his phone to check the time. It was out of charge – of course. He hadn’t charged it last night, he’d been busy trying to comfort Enjolras and ensure that he didn’t awake before finally dozing off himself. He stared around for a clock, smiling slightly at the old grandfather clock by the exit of the living room into what he could only assume to be Enjolras’ bedroom. It looked incredibly out of place in the more modern décor of the apartment, almost making Grantaire laugh. Indeed, that was how he felt at the moment; thrown out of what he knew into a new place and group, all for a man who he had only met once? What was he thinking?

   ‘Stop,’ he urged himself, stiffening as he felt Enjolras shift, beginning to wake up. ‘You’re here now, and that’s the important thing.’

   The first thing that Enjolras did when he awoke was reach for the pencil and paper that had been left upon the table last night, writing a quick ‘Good morning’ message before standing up to make some coffee for both him and Grantaire. In truth, he absolutely hated coffee and typically only drank it with sweetener or sugar, but he needed a caffeine hit. Today, after all, would be his return to the society of Les Amis de l’ABC. He felt almost sick in the stomach at the thought of it, but quickly shook of that feeling. It was expected and he was going to do it – he wasn’t a child, and he could handle his own problems. He finished making the cups of coffee (dumping copious amounts of sweetener into his but leaving the other black) and bought them out to the living room, where Grantaire still sat with his back against the sofa. He gratefully took the mug from Enjolras and began to drink it.

   “Anything fun going on today, Apollo?” he enquired teasingly. The nickname made Enjolras roll his eyes, unsure of why Grantaire persisted in calling him that now that they were both full acquainted.

   ‘A meeting at Café Musain,’ he wrote on the paper, his writing now becoming cramped as he attempted to fit each letter into the small space that was left. Impulsively, he continued: ‘Do you want to come?’

   Grantaire paused. It was one thing to admire – and tease – the revolutionary group from afar, quite another to meet all of them in the flesh. Then again, he had met two of Enjolras’ friends at the hospital and they had seemed… nice, he supposed. Incredibly imposing and not at all people who he would want to get on the wrong side of, but nice. “Alright, then,” he said decisively. Now he couldn’t back out.

   ‘I have to go to my voice therapy first,’ Enjolras scribbled down, finally taking another piece of paper to write on; Grantaire supposed absently that he had been so hesitant to take one earlier because of some ‘save the trees’ thing, and felt himself smile slightly, then forced himself to keep focusing on what Enjolras was writing and decidedly not the way that he bit his lip slightly when he was focusing on something. ‘I’ll be a little bit late, may you tell Combeferre? Just say that I’ll be late.’

   Grantaire almost burst out laughing at the absurd trust that Enjolras regarded him with. “You want me, a complete stranger, to tell one of your best friends, your socialist revolutionary buddies, that you’re going to be late and I might just hang about whilst you’re not there?” Enjolras’ stony gaze immediately put to rest any assumptions that he might have possibly been joking. “Alright, then,” he said for the second time that day. How did he keep ending up in situations like these? Oh yeah. He was a push-over when it came to this stunning god before him.

   The rest of the morning, and most of the afternoon, was passed quite quietly; Grantaire unpacked his small suitcase in the too-big room that Enjolras had put aside for him and spent the majority of his time after that trying to learn basic sign language for whatever ‘save the environment plan’ Enjolras and his friends were likely to rope him into. Before long, he glanced at the clock on the wall – this house had no shortage of clocks, it seemed – and read that it was 6:30pm, leaving him with half an hour to get to Café Musain. He stepped out of the room and glanced at his phone, reading the directions that Enjolras had sent him, not wanting to waste even more paper. He was rather surprised that they seemed to cater to those getting a taxi, but managed to glean what train he would need to get on from the locations mentioned.

   Standing outside of the Café, he felt almost sure of himself. He would go in there, he would tell them that he was Enjolras’ new roommate and… what? Friend? The seeds of doubt began to clutch at his mind again, and he forced himself in there before he could turn around and run. He was slightly late, and the meeting was apparently already beginning by the time that he opened the door.

   Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

   Grantaire had visualised the group very differently; he had imagined the cold looks that he would get, the snide remarks, over and over on his way there. He hadn’t visualised his boxing instructor, his old co-worker and his doctor, and he most certainly hadn’t imagined the cheerful greetings that even people who didn’t know him would be giving him.

   “R!” Bahorel called, waving him over with a warm smile. “I didn’t know you went in for this sort of thing!”

   Grantaire almost smiled himself, walking over to the taller man and standing next to him. Sure, they all seemed eager to make him feel at home, but he didn’t want to impose by taking a seat that wasn’t his. Did they have seating plans here? Did they just sit wherever? Did they sit in groups? Was he overthinking? He didn’t know the answers to the first three questions in his mind, but the last one was a definite yes.

   “I’m actually Enjolras’ roommate,” he replied, a hint of apprehension slipping into the voice that he had been so determinedly keeping nonchalant.

   “How many screening tests did you have to go through to get the place?” Joly joked from across the room. It was pleasant – if a little odd – to see him out of the confines of the doctor’s office, and Grantaire was momentarily thrown, searching for a way to answer.

   “None, but let’s face it – he’s probably got the place bugged up,” he quipped in return, earning a wry grin from one of Enjolras’ close friends; a man in glasses, who he recognised from his Instagram stalking as Combeferre.

   “That’s more likely than you would think,” Combeferre replied with a tight-lipped smile, looking around the room. “Speaking of Enjolras, where is he?”

   It confused Grantaire that his roommate really hadn’t told his friends where he was going. He had assumed that his two best friends, at least, would know. Suddenly, the information that Enjolras was at speech therapy seemed very important to keep to himself, as per his roommate’s implicit instructions.

   “Uh, he just said that he was going to be late. Didn’t say why,” he lied, shrugging. The others accepted this with a sort of uncertainty, returning to their conversations, whilst Joly gave him a knowing look.

   An hour passed, and Enjolras didn’t appear.

   Two hours, and he still remained absent.

   Eventually, Courfeyrac turned to address the group. Despite the worrying circumstances – from what Grantaire had gleaned from various snippets of conversation, Enjolras had never been late before – he remained at ease and very confident. “We’ll be finishing here for today, given that Enjolras has clearly been badly delayed.” A hint of a frown creased his brow, but it was gone before anyone but Grantaire could notice it. “We’ll be meeting again next week, same time. We’ll see you all then, or sooner!”

   Grantaire didn’t linger as the group split up. Without Enjolras there, no matter how hard the group had tried to make him feel included, he felt like an outsider. He briefly considered going back to Éponine’s apartment, but something compelled him to return to the place that he now shared with Enjolras. Unlocking the door, he stared around the darkened flat; the clock on the wall read 11:46. Perhaps Enjolras was out.

   He made his way to the kitchen, deciding to make some coffee before sitting down to read one of the few books that he had brought with him, or doodle a little bit. Upon arrival, however, he heard a soft sobbing coming from Enjolras’ room. Pausing, unsure of whether to disturb his roommate, he headed over to the door and knocked, sharply, twice. The sobbing stopped. “Enjolras? Are you okay?” It was only after calling out that he realised how stupid that was – how could Enjolras tell him, mute as he was? A minute later, a piece of paper was pushed under the door.

   ‘There’s a record player out in the living room. Play something?’

   Grantaire didn’t ask why Enjolras didn’t want to come out himself, instead hastening over to the record player and sorting through a few vinyl records. “God, your music taste is shit,” he joked, calling over to Enjolras. A sound that seemed almost like a strained laugh was returned. Continuing to search, Grantaire finally came across a record that seemed suitable. “Queen – A Night at the Opera,” he read out loud in the poshest voice that he could managed, placing it on the record player. It took a few attempts, but he finally got it on the track that he wanted. Piano chords rang out through the flat as Grantaire made his way back over to the door separating him and his roommate, humming the familiar tune and hoping that Enjolras could hear it. “Love of my Life,” he repeated the track title to Enjolras, a slip of paper being pushed through a few seconds later in return.

   ‘Thank you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... who would be interested in seeing a Finding Your Voice playlist?


End file.
